


Forever and Two Days

by incurableidealist



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Adventure, Angst, Crime, Fluff, Gen, Lots and lost of angst, M/M, case-fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-02
Updated: 2012-08-02
Packaged: 2017-11-11 06:30:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/475578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/incurableidealist/pseuds/incurableidealist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Irene Adler is back, seemingly from the dead. She requests Sherlock's assistance in a case. The story follows Sherlock, John ad Victor on the case, but not just any case. It is one which makes Sherlock choose between his work and John. Non compliant with Season 2, episodes 2 and 3. Canon characters make appearances. Assumed John/Sherlock. One sided Victor/Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forever and Two Days

**Author's Note:**

> WIP. 8 chapters so far out of an expected 10.  
> I hope you like it. Please leave a review. Thanks!

It had been a week. A week since they had clapped eyes on each other, or spoken or touched or interacted. It was officially the longest time they had gone without talking to each other intentionally. John had apparently holed up with Mike Stamford for a stipulated week or so. He was trying to phone his sister and get back in touch with her to help him find accommodation.

And here was Sherlock, sitting cross legged on the floor, bang in the middle of 221B, looking very tired and very flummoxed. His eyes kept scanning the room; at times he would fix his gaze on a blank spot on the wall and tilt his head, willing it to reveal the answers to him. The flat bore all the telltale signs of a violent domestic argument -askew furniture, paper strewn floor, broken bowls in the sink and an unmade bed. Names had been called, taunts had been thrown, and mobile phones had been brandished. Mrs. Hudson had worked herself up to a nervous wreck waiting outside the door of the flat and had fervently prayed she wouldn't have to call Lestrade. Sherlock could tell by her incessant pacing all the while.

He had no idea how he had ended up here. It was only three weeks back that John and he had finally (finally!) got together, as a couple. Although the social dictums and eyebrow raises were downright vexing and tiresome, Sherlock had given up trying to solve that puzzle. Instead he had set to work on the John Watson puzzle. He had never met a man so transparent in his life. He was exactly how he portrayed himself to be, gave himself no airs and carried a quiet confidence with him; it was as if the man could handle anything Sherlock threw at him. In spite of the fact that he was confounded by the simplest of details which grabbed at Sherlock's attention, in truth, Sherlock Holmes knew that John Watson was a far wiser man than he. But try getting him to say that, I dare you.

After they had settled into their routines,(well there was not much settling in to do ,they had been living together for a year now ) ,they just had to adjust to each other's bodily needs and sexual appetites. No problem there too. Sherlock wasn't an open book to read for anyone except John. John could tell exactly when Sherlock was aroused, when he was pleasantly distracted by John's arse or was staring at him when he made tea.

So till the last Sunday they had both been as happy as a consulting detective and his colleague can be. They bickered, John puttered around the house while Sherlock played some grand violin concerto for John, hovering near him all the while. They both had to admit, it was quite pleasant.

Then the fateful Monday came.

_A week back. Monday._

John had woken up early to get ready for work and make breakfast when Sherlock had asked him in many suggestive ways to stay in bed. But as fate would have it, Lestrade had rung up in the middle. Sherlock had sounded breathless on the phone and John had smirked his irresistible smile.

"Fine. I'll be there in ten minutes."

Sherlock hung up the phone and could tell from John's exasperated sigh that they could continue this later. They dressed and dashed out for a cab,

A woman's body had been found in the Battersea station. As the pair walked into the deserted premises, John could hear Irene's words "Well, look at us both."And the woman had been right. They had always been a couple, Sherlock and he.

Elegantly lifting the yellow cord that separated him and the crime scene, Sherlock swooped down to examine the body, coat billowing around him as he danced around it. The woman was in her early thirties and had her head bludgeoned so badly that she was barely recognisable anymore.

Somewhere, deep down in John's heart he knew something was wrong. Terribly, terribly wrong.

Sherlock had stripped the woman's upper body with no concern for her modesty now that she was dead. He froze at what he saw.

It was The Woman.

Sherlock was fairly certain that this was another ploy to get his attention. After having valiantly rescued her from the clutches of the Taliban, Sherlock had relinquished all and any contact with her. But between the times he had rescued her and returned to London, something had happened.

Something Sherlock would rather die than tell John about.

He stole a glance at John. He was wearing his best I-am-in-control expression but there was a doubt nagging at his mind.

He swooped out of the station without a word to Lestrade. He managed to double back and leave John stranded in the middle of a crime scene, again.

Where would she be?

The answer came to him before he finished asking the question. He hailed the first cab that crossed his way and fumbled in his pocket for a nicotine patch.

"221 B Baker Street, please."

It was the same aroma that assaulted his senses when he entered his, their, flat. Dior's Poison. Seldom had a perfume a more fitting name than when used by this woman.

She was gracefully perched on his desk, typing away at her (newly acquired) Blackberry, a tea tray laden out at the table.

"It's been a while, Mr. Holmes."

"Back in business, I presume, Miss Adler?"

"Oh, no. I have been a good girl. A few months after you," she looked him up and down, a scrutiny which made Sherlock uncomfortable," rescued me, I got married to a shipping magnate from America."

"Connubial bliss must suit you Miss Adler. I haven't been invited by Her Majesty to track down any compromising photographs."

"Ah, Mr. Holmes. I can afford some peace for now."

"And why exactly are you back? You wouldn't seek my assistance unless your own hands were tied."Sherlock smirked victoriously at the double entendre.

"If I recall correctly, you rather enjoyed it when my hands were tied the last time, Sherlock."

The use of his first name and the memory of the night spent together were unnerving. The woman knew how to throw him off his feet.

"The case, Miss Adler?" His patience was waning and he didn't want to make things more unsavoury by having to do this in John's presence. Not with her alluding to that night.

The Woman. That Fateful Night.

To be fair to himself, he had been drugged with some rather strong brand of hashish and had awoken the next morning with no memory of the previous night and a rather rude text alert noise. He had one text which read "That's twice now, Mr. Holmes. You couldn't say no to dinner with me could you?"

If there was anyone in the world who could make Sherlock Holmes look like a total idiot, it was Irene Adler, of dubious and questionable memory.

"It simply is this. I want my husband dead."

"Surely there are less vicious ways of getting rid of him. Divorce perhaps?"

"Divorce would be too easy a way out for him. The man cheated on me."Her voice rose by a few octaves .

Her demeanour changed. She was no longer the cool cucumber she always was, no longer in control. Her movements became aggressive as she paced the floor of the living room.

"I caught him in bed with a woman half his age. Men don't cheat on me, I cheat on them. I take advantage of them and manipulate them."

"Played you at your own game, did he now? "

"I NEED TO GET OUT OF THIS !"

Sherlock remained unimpressed. Sure, hell hath no fury like a woman scorned and when it was a hell of a woman as Irene herself, Satan himself would descend to Earth.

Irene Adler had played Sherlock. What he had then dismissed simply as love was in fact even baser than that-it had been arousal. And she had gotten him her own way, drugged in a small motel in Karachi. When people like Irene underwent pain or humiliation, they saw nought but their suffering. Adler was at her most vulnerable right now. Sherlock could get her for what she had done.

But as fate would have it, John entered the room at that point. He stopped dead in his tracks. As a soldier, John Watson had witnessed many oddities in the battlefield. But the curious case of the- woman- who- died- thrice –and- was- now- pacing- his- living- room had to take the cherry.

"You are alive." A statement, a confirmation, an expression of wonderment.

"I am, Dr. Watson. Are we finished here?"

It was uncanny but John had to admit she sounded a lot like Sherlock dismissing Mrs. Hudson in the way she said that. As his eyes roved the room, he found Sherlock seated on his chair wearing a smug smile.

"Ah, John. Great timing. Ms. Adler is here in demand for our services."He stressed the word our.

"What is it now? Who did you blackmail this time?"

"Is this amusing to you Dr. Watson?"She walked up to him and though they were of the same height, she managed to look down upon him while thoroughly invading his personal space.

"Your case, Irene?" John tilted his head to get a better view of Sherlock.

Something must have clicked in Irene's mind. He could practically hear the wheels of her great brain turning in motion. A second later, Irene Adler went from looking frazzled to looking the very picture of utter poise, like she had found some leverage.

"Sherlock, dearest, did you tell John what happened in Karachi?"

Sherlock's hand clutching the bow turned white at the knuckles. His equanimity was visibly disturbed just by the thought of what had happened. He sprung up, looking like a taut cable.

John meanwhile was hung in limbo as the great detective and the woman played mind games with each other.

"What happened in Karachi?"

"Oh, Dr. Watson, I am sure you don't know. Memories of a night like that one aren't supposed to be shared. They are to be cherished in the privacy of one's mind."

She dropped him a lascivious wink and proceeded to assault Sherlock's personal space. She lazily kissed his cheek, gave his behind a friendly pat and departed.

"Do let me know if I shall have your assistance and cooperation, Sherlock. I shall be looking forward to working with you." Her voice drifted up from the stairwell.

John looked askance. By what he could gather from the conversation, Sherlock had slept with Irene. Willingly.

"Is it true?" his voice was a low baritone that he used when he was his irritated best.

"What is?"

"IS IT TRUE?"

"John, I can explain."

John Watson had a few cherished memories in his life. One of them was meeting Sherlock Holmes. The other was witnessing him stand truly, utterly dumbstruck.

Sherlock's inability to explain notwithstanding, John pushed past him to leave. Sherlock caught his arm, pushed him against the kitchen wall and proceeded to kiss him.

Being Sherlock Holmes's partner teaches one a few things. Sherlock always always prefers kissing John to talking, simply because of the fact that he excels at it and is an advantageous position due to his height. He also knows how to excellently sidestep an issue and act nonchalant about it. John had let him get away with it a couple of times but this time was just the limit.

John roughly pushed Sherlock off him.

"I have been taking bullets for you since I met you. You promised me your fidelity Sherlock. May I bring to your notice how extremely upset you were every time I attempted to date someone and sabotaged each relationship I thought I wanted to have? And then you go off to some godforsaken place and sleep with Adler of all people?"

"It isn't like that John." Sherlock mumbled.

"LIKE HELL IT ISN'T. How would you feel if I went off right now and slept with Sarah? Or Jeanette?"

"Jeanette dumped you if I recall correctly."

"SHE DUMPED ME BECAUSE OF YOU. AND BECAUSE OF THAT ADLER WOMAN. "

His patience having now reached his limit, John grabbed the first thing that came to his hand (Sherlock's journal) and flung it across the room. Vintage copies of The Telegraph and Daily Mail danced around the room but Sherlock had the gall to stand there and stare.

Someday I will kill this man and get hung for it. He thought darkly.

All attempts at self control in vain, John made a graceful exit slamming his way out.

As he heard the front door slam, Sherlock let go of his self possession and slumped onto the couch.

Spoiled yet again.

He would really have to do something drastic this time to get John back.


End file.
